Fic: Billy All Night
May. 17th, 2009 12:00 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
dylan-dufresne.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
monaboyd_monthTitle: Billy All Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dylan_dufresne
Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: This chapter PG-ish
Summary: AU. Dom's a career-obsessed producer at a local radio station. Billy's in town to do a favor for a family friend.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated as it’s my drug of choice.
Disclaimer: Not at all true in reality. This is my imagination at work.
A/N: Based on a book I read years ago. To cover myself, I’m going to call this an adaptation.
A/N 2: Big thanks tonot_a_lamb for the beta.
Teaser: Dom knows that a pub is a lousy place to find a hero, but he's desperate and rattled, and very good at making do with what he has on hand. Unfortunately, what he has on hand is pretty pathetic.
Chapter 1
Dominic Monaghan hits the radio station door late in the afternoon at a brisk clip, banging it open like a saloon door. If they ever lock the door, he's going to seriously hurt himself and probably break his glasses, but they never seem to do that since everyone has to be buzzed in from the street level four floors below. So as a result, he charges through as usual, happy to be there, and as expected, what feels like forty people converge on him all at once.
He beams as they pounce; reveling the feeling that WCRB can't run without him, that without him there'd be dead air and dust. This is who he is, Dom-the-producer, Dom-the-brains-behind-The-Michael-King-Show, Dom-the-savior. He knows he's probably a little cracked to depend on a radio station for his identity, but considering all the other psychological problems running loose at the station, he's in relatively good mental health, so he chooses not to dwell on it.
First up is Liv, the sweet, always-ready-with-a-smile receptionist, who calls out "Dom!", but that noise alerts Jenny, his former student intern, who pops out of the hall looking rather miserable as she says, "Dom, I-" She is promptly pushed aside by a harried-looking Elijah, the junior accountant who blurts out, "Dom, the ratings-" who is overrun by Cate, the two-to-six barracuda who says, "Dom, I just heard about-"
In mid-sentence, Cate is abruptly shouldered aside by Michael, Dom's ex-lover and present boss, who tells him, "I need to see you in your office. Right now."
Pushing his glasses back up his squashed up nose so he can see Michael better, Dom notices that the silence settling over the reception area is a tribute to how bizarrely the American is behaving. Usually Michael makes his presence known through great effort: smiling, talking too loud, dropping names, laughing heartily in the wrong places. It's because he's insecure, and once upon a time Dom had felt sorry for him, but he doesn't now, having been unceremoniously dumped as Michael's lover just shy of two months ago when Michael decided he'd look better standing next to Jenny than standing next to Dom. He was right, of course, but it still hurts like a bitch.
Now standing in the entrance to the hallway, quietly superior, it's such a change for Michael that everybody shuts up, and then Dom follows him to his office without question.
Once inside, Michael closes the door behind him with a sharp click, walks around to Dom's desk chair, and sinks down into it.
It takes everything in Dom to fight back a snarl. All right, he isn't overly territorial, but this is his office, no matter how tiny and cluttered, and his battered desk, and that is his desk chair, and Michael is making him feel like a visitor in his own domain.
So he scowls at the other man and says, "What the hell?"
Michael crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, which tilts so that he's almost horizontal to Dom's vertical, and then says, "There's no good way to tell you this, Dom, so I'll just say it. I know it's going to be hard, but I also know you're an adult and you realize that things change. People grow. Change is good."
Letting his head fall back, Michael addresses the ceiling as he begins to wax philosophic, and while Dom waits for him to get to the point, assuming he has one, Dom considers how amazingly good looking Michael is, and how angry Dom is at him, and how much he wants him back. The bastard.
At present, this is the great mystery of his life. Michael's an insecure twat, so why the fuck had Dom fallen for him, and why is he still hung up on him? Why does Dom miss going to dinner with him and lying in bed with him, all the while listening to the American talk about himself? Of course, that had been research for the show, but still.
As Michael drones on and Dom automatically begins to edit his speech for broadcast purposes, the possibility suddenly dawns on him that what he'd actually fallen for was the edited Michael King he'd created on the radio, not the real Michael King who sits in front of him now, boring him to bloody tears. And that's what Dom is most pissed off about: that he'd created Michael, and then the wanker taken his hard work to someone else. A woman. Dom's assistant.
Michael is still waxing. "So that's why-"
Dom decides to cut in, more exasperated with himself than with Michael. "Look, I've got things to do here so if you'll just cut to the chase, I'll get back to keeping you a star." Okay, so that's below the belt, but Michael started the fight by parking his overindulged arse in Dom's chair. Not to mention dumping him for a tart. Okay, so he must admit that Jenny is a very nice tart, but still.
Michael sits up straight and lays his palms flat on his desk, the pressure of his fingers causing the pieces of paper beneath to shift. "All right, here it is: You're not going to be working on my show anymore."
Suddenly, the room begins to spin, and Dom drops into the remaining chair in the room before choking out a reply. "What?"
"I've sensed a certain hostility since our breakup, and it's affecting my performance, so Ian and I have decided it's best to put Jenny in your place - since you've trained her. That way the show won't suffer at all."
Dom is silent, totally and utterly gobsmacked.
Smiling at him, Michael spreads his fingers in an unaffected gesture of how the decision was out his hands, and couldn't be undone. "Jenny is producing the show, starting now. It'll be better for all of us."
"All of us who?" Dom sucks in a deep breath because he's pretty sure it's the not breathing that's making him dizzy. "Not all of us. Me. You have the prime time show. I'm the prime time producer. Unless I get the slot while you and Jenny move someplace cozy, this is not better for me."
"Well, of course I'm not moving." Michael sits up straighter in the chair and smoothes down the front of his shirt. "I'm the talent."
He's the fucking talent? Then what the bloody hell am I?
"And you're not sacked or anything like that. We do appreciate what you've done," Michael goes on to say, the British slang sounding forced and awkward coming from his lips, and Dom jerks his head up, anger finally evicting his panic.
"Of course I'm not fucking sacked," Dom seethes hotly. "Why would I be sacked? This makes no sense."
Michael plows on through his anger, his face infuriatingly passive. "And Ian's going to give you another show to produce. I made sure of that."
Good old Michael, taking care of him. What a mate. He's made sure the knife he used to stab Dom in the back is sharp, and has buried it good and deep. To the hilt. Dom stands up, refraining from killing Michael where he sits only by Herculean effort. "Well Michael, thanks for the support and good luck in the future. Now get the fuck out of my chair."
The other man rises, doing what Dom had ordered by instinct. After two years of doing everything Dom said without question, it's probably a hard habit to break. He moves toward the door, brimming with patronizing good will. "Look, why don't we go out for a drink? Just to show there are no hard feelings."
Dom wants to scream at him, rip his throat out and ground the bloody mess into the worn beige carpet at his feet. Of course, there are hard feelings, you wanker. If I could, I'd beat you senseless with one right now, you fucker. But Dom's too adult for that, and too rattled, so he lies instead. Michael may have kicked him in the teeth, but dammit, he still has his incisors, and they're sharp. "Sorry, I've already got a date," Dom informs him coolly. "Some other time, perhaps."
A well worn shoulder bag is scooped up from it's resting place against the side of Dom's desk, the material and weight familiar on Dom's slender shoulder. Ducking out into the hall in front of Michael, Dom escapes, forcing away the urge to cry. That would be a real mistake because he never cries, so if he does now, people would probably assume somebody has died.
And then he'll have to tell them that, tragically, Michael still lives and breathes. The utter and complete fuckwit.
Predictably, Michael follows him down the hall, so Dom puts on a burst of speed, grateful that he's wearing comfortable trainers.
Liv calls, "Dom!" again as he rushes past the receptionist's desk and this time, she shoves a small envelope at him. "Ian-"
Dom takes the envelope without slowing down, flashing the best smile he can muster under the circumstances, and bolts for the lift with Michael still in hot pursuit. Then Liv calls out to Michael as well, a manicured hand on his bicep stopping him, and Dom catches the lift, mercifully escaping to the street below.
He's been sacked. He still has a job, but his career with Michael is gone. Dom sticks his crooked jaw out and tries to fake defiance. Big deal, he'll just build another show around this new bloke. But it's no good. He's spent two years making that show a hit, taking surveys, researching topics, devising contests, doing everything he knew to showcase Michael's strengths. He'd majored in Michael King, and now he's been unceremoniously expelled.
For a moment, outside the restaurant across from the station, Dom feels a moment of pure fear. What if I can't do it again? What if Michael is right and he is the talent? What if I really am a loser? Nobody coming to me for help; nobody relying on me.
No. I'll find a way back.
Dom grits his teeth, pushes his shoulders back, and strides into the restaurant.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A spacious hallway at Lou's Pub divides the restaurant from the bar, a sort of open barrier that separates the eating yuppies from the drinking yuppies. Dom stops there first and opens the envelope Liv handed him to find the kind of note the station owner is famous for: short, tactless, and to the point:
Dom,
I'm taking you off Michael's show and
giving you to Billy Boyd, the man taking
over for Karl Urban. Meet him tomorrow,
Tuesday, five o'clock, in my office.
Ian
Before he was fired, 'Urban' Karl had the 10pm to 2 AM spot; the fucking dead zone of radio. Dom realizes that he's just been demoted from producing the radio equivalent of Oprah to the radio equivalent of reruns of a fucking infomercial. Okay so maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but not by much. The place in Dom's teeth where Michael had kicked him earlier begins to throb harder.
And his roommate, Orlando, who is supposed to meet him, isn't here to comfort him. Fuck this. He's going home to get stinking drunk and drown his misery in private. Dom turns around to go back into the street, but stops short because right outside the door is Michael, greeting people who greet him back like he's a celebrity. Which of course he is; thanks to Dom.
Now, he's going to come into the pub and find Dom alone after his big talk about a date because Orlando is late again. Not that Orlando would have been very impressive as a date, but he would have been more impressive than no date at all. Michael knows that the relationship between Dom and Orlando is purely platonic. Always has been, Dom promised Michael while they were seeing one another. Well aware of his impending humiliation, Dom turns his attention to the long bar, trying to come up with a solution that will save him. Of course, Dom knows that a pub is a lousy place to find a hero, but he's desperate and rattled, and very good at making do with what he has on hand. Unfortunately, what he has on hand is pretty pathetic.
Shoving his thin, wire-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one finger, he peers at the row of stools lined up at the bar. Businessman. Businesswoman. Empty seat. Businessman. Businessman. Empty seat. Empty seat. Bloke in a leather jacket. Businessman.
Dom swallows the lump that has been in his throat for the past ten minutes or so, and squares his shoulders. Okay, fine, if that's what he has to work with, he'll work with it. But it's going to have to be the ones in denims because Dom is never going to have a relationship with a suit again as long as he lives; even a relationship that's only going to last five minutes.
And the bloke really isn't that bad, Dom reasons, trying to drum up some enthusiasm before he makes his move. The older man's ginger hair is shaggy over his collar, his brown leather jacket has definitely seen better days, and his jeans are looking to be a wee bit worn in spots, but he's fit and clean and most important of all, he makes a nice contrast to all the charcoal suits that look like Michael. And what Dom wants more than anything right now is someone who isn't Michael.
Of course, Dom knows he's behaving like a daft idiot, but given the life-bomb that has just exploded in his face, the fact that he's behaving at all and not sitting in a catatonic trance or drowning at the bottom of a bottle on the floor of his office is a step in the right direction. Deciding that at least the bloke looks like a change of pace, Dom walks over to him and says, "Hi!" as cheerfully as he can muster. He's not feeling particularly cheerful at the moment, so Dom sounds like he's been sucking helium, but the focus of his attention turns and looks at him anyway.
Dom's not sure what he'd been expecting. Maybe some fantasy bloke who is even more perfect looking than Michael, which in all fairness to the American, would be almost impossible, but Dom is stunned to discover that they aren't even in the same class. He has deep green eyes that cause Dom's breath to catch in his throat, a nicely shaped nose that suits his lightly-freckled face, and sensuous bow-shaped lips with an intriguing filtrum right above it. In short: Not bad at all.
Dom casually drops his shoulder bag down on the bar. "So, are you meeting someone?" he asks, still on helium, and then glances over his shoulder to check on the Michael situation. All he has to do is keep the bloke in conversation until Michael walks in, sees that Dom is with him, and leaves.
Michael doesn't like competition.
"So are you?" Dom continues, smiling like a telemarketer. "Meeting someone?" He sits down beside the bloke, praying Michael won't come in.
One eyebrow quirks up into a curious arch, and then comes the reply, in a knee-melting, mouthwatering, unmistakably Scottish lilt. "No, I'm not, and what in the world do you think you're doing?"
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Billy Boyd is gazing into his tumbler of scotch and contemplating his future when the Englishman appears at his side and begins attempting to pick him up. His immediate future is looking a wee bit complicated, so he's wisely decided that his best plan is to lay low, not make waves, do the job, and get out. Filling in for a night show at a wee radio station for a spell can't be that hard. The station isn't that big. Hell, the town isn't that big.
So far, it's looks as though Billy's biggest problem is going to be entertaining himself. Considering some of the colorful individuals he's met along his travels that have held down jobs at radio stations, he can certainly give it a try. And he's made it clear to everybody concerned that he's only around for eight weeks. Period. He has things to do and places he has to be come November.
While Billy hasn't quite decided exactly what place he has to be in November, he's certain it's somewhere uncomplicated and remote so he has time to relax before starting at the network in January. Especially remote from his sister who has taken to asking weird favors lately. Like "Check into this radio station for your uncle's old school chum Ian." This is what comes of going home to Glasgow for Margaret's birthday. From now on, Billy vows, he'll just send a card and some flowers to brighten her day.
And as soon as he's done, he's out of here and someplace else. Someplace where he can do something simple for awhile; like raise sheep. No, too complicated. He'll raise carrots. You don't have to feed carrots. Is there such a thing as a carrot farm? There has to be. All those carrots have to come from somewhere, yeah?
He stops thinking when the Englishman squeaks, "Hi!"
Billy blinks at him, mildly surprised. He doesn't look like the vivacious pick-up-a-bloke-in-a-pub type. Sharp blue-grey eyes gleam behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his dark blonde hair is tousled endearingly, not that Billy would ever tell him that. There is nothing wrong with his nose or mouth, even though the former is kinda squashed up, and the latter a wee bit crooked, but on him it seems to work rather well.
Definitely not the type to walk up to a stranger in a pub. Frankly, he doesn't seem dressed for trolling either as the oversized vest he's wearing almost completely conceals the slender, tempting body that Billy's sharp eye has detected. He looks like a nice, average bloke. Not too young, not too old; late twenties to early thirties, unless Billy misses his guess.
Dom raises his eyebrows so high they disappear under his shaggy bangs and bats his impossibly long eyelashes. "So! Are you meeting someone?" He glances over his shoulder before dropping his shoulder bag down on the bar. It looks like it's made from very old blue denim, and held together by the Englishman's will alone. Billy has never seen anything quite like it so he gingerly pokes his finger at the bag, not surprised to discover that it's as fuzzy to touch as it looks.
"Are you?" Dom smiles at him again, a sort of strained, too-many-teeth, trying-way-too-hard smile. "Meeting someone?" He sinks down on the stool beside Billy.
"No." Billy looks at him with mild interest. "No, I'm not, and what in the world do you think you're doing?"
"Picking you up?"
Eyebrow still arched, Billy shakes his head. "I don't think so. This isn't your style. What are you really doing?"
The artificial smile quickly morphs into a genuine scowl, and Dom's perky voice drops an octave. "I don't believe this. Can't you even pretend on the hope that you'll get lucky?"
"I don't pretend. I'm the natural, open type." Billy considers moving away from the Englishman, perhaps finding a table, and then rejects the idea. If he leaves now, he'll never find out what this bloke is up to. And besides, when he scowled at Billy, his voice had gone husky. Truth be told, the younger man has got a rather fetching low voice. Billy smiles at his companion, trying to make him talk again. "Why don't you just give me the highlights, and then we can take it from there."
Sighing heavily, Dom lowers his head a little and stares at him over the rims of his glasses. "Look, the highlights will take far too long, and besides, it makes me look like a pathetic sod. All I ask is that you pretend to be having a drink with me." When Billy gives him a skeptical look, Dom quickly adds, "I swear that's it."
Right. Billy has been wandering through the world long enough to know that won't be it, that there will be complications. There are always complications, which is why Billy has spent his years learning to be light on his feet and fast out the door. It's a practice that has served him well.
On the other hand, this bloke isn't part of his current problem so there aren't likely to be long term complications, and he has a free evening before he needs to go poking around in other people's business, so Billy might as well poke around in this bloke's for awhile. At the very least, he'll get to listen to him talk, in that voice that strokes his senses quite pleasantly. Decision made, Billy shrugs and motions to the bartender "Ach, it's worth one drink just to find out what happens next."
"I'm pretty sure he won't come over here." Uneasily, Dom looks over his shoulder again. "I hope."
When the bartender arrives, Billy says, "He'll have . . . What will you have?"
"I'll pay for my own Amaretto and cream, Max," Dom interjects crisply, reaching into his fuzzy bag and withdrawing a couple of bills, handing them over while looking over his shoulder again.
"You got it, Dom," the bartender replies and moves away.
"Amaretto and cream?" Billy can't keep himself from pulling a face. "That's sounds disgusting."
"You're from Scotland, yeah? I've got one word for you. Haggis."
"Just because I'm Scottish, doesn't mean I'm personally responsible for all of the country's culinary creations," Bill fires back, unfazed.
"Nice alliteration. At least the cream part is good for me," Dom muses aloud, returning to the subject of his drink. "Well, it should be skim milk, but pubs never have skim milk."
"That's true." Billy pulls back a little. "I have to say, you have the weirdest pickup line I've ever heard."
"Pick up line?" Swiveling around on the stool to face Billy, Dom's expressive eyes narrow to slits and his cheeks grow rosy with outrage. Fortunately, the outrage looks very good on him. "This isn't a pick up line. The pick up line was before, the one that didn't work." He swivels around again, to keep lookout. "Oh, bugger." Turning to face Billy, Dom swallows hard. "There he is. Okay, here's the deal. We're together. Try to look like you haven't just insulted me."
"I didn't insult you," Billy retorts mildly. "I made an observation."
"Well, stop." After a quick glance over his shoulder, Dom groans under his breath. "Fuck. There he is." Billy watches his eyes drop closed, and when he sees the other man's lips moving, he leans in closer only to discover that Dom's not talking to him. "He's going to go right by. I'm sure he's going to go right by. Oh please, just keep-"
A male model type stops on the other side of him. "Dom! There you are. I-"
Despite his efforts to control his reaction, Dom's slender body spasms as if he's been shot. "Michael! What a surprise. To see you. Again. So soon." He shoots a quick look at Billy and murmurs, very softly, "Oh, shite."
Then he bravely lifts his chin and turns to smile at Michael.
He's doing pretty well, Billy muses to himself. Good smile. Pretty lame answer, but the smile and the chin will probably make up for it. He takes a moment to observe the man Dom is so desperate to avoid. Tall, dark, and handsome if you like really pretty men. Very expensive suit. Toothpaste grin. Fake. And the wanker is smiling that grin at Dom as if he knows Dom is in agony. Billy sighs and shakes his head at the situation before taking a sip of his scotch. Good thing he's not involved in this one. It's a mess. A big one.
"Let me buy you a drink, Dom. It's the least I can do." Michael the wanker motions for the bartender.
Max wanders back and sets a tumbler of Amaretto down in front of Dom.
"No, no." Dom's mouth pulls tight from the stress. "I already have one. Thanks, Max."
"Amaretto and cream." Michael laughs. "Good old Dom." Taking a seat beside Dom at the bar, he pats the younger man on the back, almost condescendingly.
A very faint low growl rumbles in Dom's throat, locked behind his teeth, almost indiscernible in the babble of the bar, but Billy hears it because Dom had turned toward him as he made it. "I'm sorry about this," Dom whispers to him. "So fucking sorry."
Leaning in close, Billy whispers in Dom's ear, "Try not to look like a wounded basset hound, yeah?"
With a quick nod, Dom flashes Michael a brilliant smile over his shoulder.
"Oh, I didn't realize the two of you were together," Michael says, and pauses expectantly for an introduction.
Dom keeps smiling like a half-wit, so after a moment Billy takes pity on him and extends a hand past his nose. "Billy Boyd."
Taking Billy's hand with enthusiasm, Michael grips it in a he-man clasp, and when Billy lets his hand go limp, he smirks.
What a fecking arse, Billy thinks to himself. First class all the way.
At the development, Michael is positively jovial. "Well, this is a coincidence. I'm Michael King. You've inherited my producer, you lucky dog. I've taught him everything there is to know about radio. You're in very good hands."
Dom makes that low growling sound in his throat again, and Billy blinks at them both and then let Michael babble on about his own many successes, ignoring him for heavier thoughts. So much for distracting himself with the Englishman. Dom works at the station with Michael the arse. They’re probably both in trouble up to their bleeding necks.
Dom certainly looks like he's in trouble. He turns bleak, questioning eyes on Billy. "Is that true?" he whispers hoarsely. "You're my new DJ?" Surreptitiously, Billy nods at him and Dom lets his eyes fall closed briefly. "We were just discussing that," he lies as he turns back to Michael.
Billy picked up the glass of Amaretto and cream and tucks it into the curl of Dom's long, slender fingers. "Here you go, Boss. Glad to meet you, Michael. Is this the place everybody at the station hangs out at?"
"Pretty much. Convenient, right across the street, you know." Michael smiles broadly while he sizes Billy up with obvious, irritating confidence. "So have you two known each other long?"
Dom puts down his newly empty glass as he swallows. "Oh, it seems like it."
Billy brings his mind back to the problem at hand. "Don't chug cream like that, Dommie." Smoothly, he removes the empty glass from Dom's grasp. "This isn't skim milk, you know. This is the real thing, the hard stuff. Max, another Amaretto and cream for the Boss. In fact, just bring over the bottle and drive in the cow."
"A comedian," Dom comments as he shakes his head. "Five blokes sitting at a bar, and I pick the comedian. Terrific."
"What?" Michael leans in closer in an attempt to catch what Dom is saying.
"He thinks I'm funny," Billy explains as he slides his arm around Dom's slender waist and gives him an affectionate squeeze, bringing their bodies closer together. Dom's a lot bendier than he is prepared for and rather likes it, so he leaves his arm where it is for awhile. "Funny is the basis for any good relationship."
"Maybe that's what's wrong with us, huh, Dom?" Michael looks soulfully at him.
What an arse. "You two were once . . ." Billy wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Dom. "You never told me that, Dommie."
"It never came up." Dom pointedly glares at him, unable to move very much, thanks to the arm wrapped snugly around his waist.
"You're a lucky man, Boyd." Michael is still trying to recapture Dom's attention, but Dom misses his meaningful looks because he's glaring at Billy.
Billy beams at them both, enjoying the situation far too much. "That's what everybody keeps telling me. Actually, it's not luck, it's skill."
Refusing to give up, Michael tries again. "So how did you two meet?"
"In a pub," Billy replies. "He picked me up."
"Dom did?" Predictably, Michael looks astounded at the revelation.
"He begged me to buy him a drink."
"Dom did?"
Billy nods. "Happens to me all the time. Animal magnetism."
"Oh, a joke." Michael looks relieved. "How did you two really meet?"
"I picked him up." Dom takes a deep breath, preparing himself to confess. "The truth is-"
Billy pulls Dom tight to his side, momentarily shutting down his lungs. He can see no good reason for Michael to know Dom is this vulnerable. "The truth is that he sat down next to me, and I looked at him and thought, 'This is a charming, interesting bloke,' and we started to talk. We've been together ever since."
Dom jerks his head up to stare at Billy, and then he smiles softly, and Billy smiles back by reflex, caught by the intelligence in his expressive, blue-grey eyes and the warmth in his wide, tempting mouth. Then Dom leans toward him, and Billy tips his head to hear what Dom has to say.
They're almost nose to nose, Dom's hot breath caressing his cheek. "You're a good person. I forgive you for insulting me." After patting Billy's sleeve, Dom then disengages himself from Billy's embrace.
Billy immediately misses his warmth. "I didn't insult you."
"How long have you two known each other?" Michael asks, seemingly undaunted.
"An eternity," Billy replies with a smile, a persistent hand resting on Dom's back and fingers toying with the dark blonde hair at the nape of his neck.
"But it seems like only a few short minutes." Dom glares at him again and then he leans back, his attention caught by something over his shoulder. He signals someone away, and Billy turns just in time to get the impression that someone is doing a fade from the doorway into the hall.
So Dom has a secret. Life just gets more interesting all the time. And of course, this means that Billy's going to have to stick with Dom until he discovers his secret. He's been hired to find all the secrets at the station. It's his job. It's his duty. He looks at Dom, his tousled hair shining like old, dark brass in the warm light of the pub.
It's his pleasure. Most definitely.
"So, where's Jenny tonight?" Dom leans on the bar in a lousy attempt at languid nonchalance, Billy's hand sliding down to the middle of his back. "What a shame she's not with you. We could all have dinner together."
Careful, Dom, Billy thinks, careful to keep his expression neutral.
"Jenny's still at the station." Michael frowns in thought. "You're right. It is a shame. This would've been a great chance for her to meet Billy."
"There'll be other chances." Billy comments before downing the last of his scotch. "I'm not going anywhere, except to the top of the ratings."
Michael mistakenly assumes that's a joke, too. "Heh, heh, heh."
After deciding that Michael has a laugh like an asthmatic horse, Billy wonders if that's why Dom left him. Listening to that laugh would be reason enough for anybody to leave him, he muses, which brings up an ugly thought. He'll have to be very careful because if Michael is any indication of his radio competition, Billy will easily rise to the top of the ratings. That would be bad. Very, very bad. One of the basic tenets of undercover investigation is not becoming a household word. Bad form.
"Well," Dom begins as he slides off his stool. "We need to get going; dinner plans. Wonderful seeing you again, Michael."
Michael leans forward to kiss Dom good-bye, only to have the Englishman trip backwards to get away from him.
All too eager to take advantage the opportunity, Billy steps forward and smoothly catches Dom, an arm automatically tightening around the younger man's slender waist. "Falling for me all over again, Dommie?" he teases. Dom is warm and welcoming against his chest, smells good enough to nibble on, and Billy's in no hurry to let go. "Try to restrain yourself," he adds suggestively. "We're in public."
Surprised, Dom turns his head to look into Billy's deep green eyes and swallows hard. "It's your animal magnetism. Consider me restrained. You can let go now."
"Oh, I don't think so," Billy replies huskily, and turns Dom, pulling him into a kiss.
He only plans to kiss Dom quickly and let him go, mostly to annoy Michael and, all right, because he has a great mouth, but when Dom clutches at him in surprise and all but falls into Billy's arms with a whimpering sigh, plans change. The kiss is a lot more than Billy expected, a lot more warmth and softness and weight, Dom's mouth cool and sweet from the cream, and Billy is more than a wee bit dizzy by the time he remembers where he is and comes up for air.
"What are you doing?" Dom sounds more breathless than annoyed when he tries to pull away from Billy.
"Making my move. Come back here." Eyes brimming with heat, Billy reaches for Dom again, only to have him step back.
Michael looks on, disgruntled and disapproving. "Well, really, Dom. You're in public."
"That's lust." Billy smiles at him happily. "He can't keep his lips off me." Dom takes another step back, and Billy stands up to follow him. "Well, it looks like we're moving on," he tells Michael. "Tell Jenny we say 'Hello'."
When they're in the hallway, Dom shakes his head in disbelief. "Who are you really? Satan? I'm being punished, yeah?"
"I'm Billy Boyd," the Scotsman replies, holding out his hand. "I work at the radio station like that stuffed shirt you used to date. I assume all you did is date. I'd hate to think that any bloke I'd kissed in a pub actually went to bed with somebody like that."
Looking down at the proffered hand, Dom sighs. Then he takes it, shakes it once and promptly drops it. "I'm Dominic Monaghan, your producer at WCRB. It's nice meeting you, and thank you very much for helping me with Michael, but I have to go now. We can talk again tomorrow at the station. "
He turns to go into the restaurant, but Billy steps around Dom to block his way, because the last thing he wants now is to get dumped. There are too many things Dom can tell him about the station. Granted, Billy can probably get the information from other people, but other people didn't have Dom's voice. Or Dom's mouth. If he has to listen to a lot of boring things about a radio station, he at least wants to hear them in Dom's seductive voice, watching Dom's intriguing mouth. "Where are you going?"
"To dinner." Dom gestures to the dining room part of the pub opposite the bar. "With my dinner date. The only perfect man I know."
"Ah." Billy nods at Dom encouragingly. "Your father. We should meet so he can see the kind of bloke you're working with now. An improvement over Michael, I'm sure."
"No."
"No, he shouldn't see?"
"No, he's not my father."
"No?" Billy thinks faster, his cherubic lips pursed. "I must say, I've never met a perfect man." He tries to look wistful. "I've always wanted a role model."
For a moment Dom looks at him with disapproval, but then he breaks out into a smile as he finally gives up. "Okay, you win. I owe you one. You want to eat dinner with Orlando and me? If you can't, it's perfectly all right."
"Thank you." Billy holds the door to the restaurant open and gestures for Dom to enter ahead of him. "I can't wait to meet Orlando, the perfect man."
"Terrific," Dom adds under his breath.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Billy follows Dom into the restaurant, a big room with too much mahogany and not enough light. He watches as Dom looks around the dimness and then breaks out into a smile when a man across the room stands up and waves them over.
As the near the table, Billy's eyes narrow ever so slightly. As much as he hates to admit it, this bloke might actually be the perfect man. He's tall, or at least taller than Billy's five foot six, and classically handsome without being obnoxious about it. Unlike Michael the arse. His jaw is strong, chestnut curls rich and gleaming, and his deep brown eyes are warm, his affectionate smile for Dom real and loving.
"Your brother?" Billy asks hopefully, and Dom says, "No," with a shake of his head before walking away from him. Quickly following his dinner companion, Billy racks his brain, trying to find something about Orlando that isn't perfect and feels vaguely annoyed when he's unsuccessful.
Sliding into a chair beside Mr. Perfect Man, Dom offers introductions. "Orli, this is Mr. Billy Boyd, the new ten to two DJ. I'm producing his show."
"I heard. Liv called." With his head tipping to one side, Orlando gives Dom a look that appears to be sympathy, but Dom has already turned back to Billy. "Billy, this is Orlando Bloom, my roommate. He's the station's senior accountant."
He sounds like a well-behaved child, but he doesn't look like one. Idly, Billy begins to wonder what Dom is like when he isn't behaving well in public. No. That sort of thinking will add to those complications he's been expecting, and Billy tries to avoid complications. Especially now. They always seem to find him anyway, but he keeps trying.
"Boyd?" Orlando's smile is open and admiring as he holds out his hand. "Didn't you used to have a show at CKNW?"
Ouch. Billy hates lying and makes a point to avoid it, but in this case, it's better than, "No, that's my second-cousin, the drug dealing DJ." Instead, he shakes his head. "Call me Billy."
Much to his chagrin, Orlando keeps going. "Boyd. I know I've heard that name from somewhere. I've got a friend up near Kent who was very upset when you pulled up stakes about a year ago, if I recall correctly. I'm looking forward to hearing you myself now."
His smile is genuine, and Billy can't help but like him.
"Who in Kent?" Dom asks, picking up the menu and opening it up. "I'm starving."
Orlando settles down in the chair next to Dom. "Viggo. Remember? The Danish painter from that 'Art in History' seminar we took?"
Billy sinks down into the chair across from Dom so he can watch him without being too obvious about it.
"Right. You kept in touch with Viggo?" Dom slides an elegant finger down the menu list, pursing his lips. "Ah hah. Pasta."
"Thanks to e-mail, I keep in touch with everybody." Frowning, Orlando taps Dom's menu. "Not pasta. I'll do pasta tomorrow night. Get something here that's a pain in the arse to make. Do you like pasta, Billy?"
It takes Billy a moment to respond, as Orlando and Dom are so in sync in their conversation he's a little surprised to be suddenly included. "Aye."
"Come to dinner tomorrow night."
Pleased at the invitation and how it'll make things easier for him, Billy beams his best smile as he replies, "Thank you." Another contact at the station. First Dom, then Michael, now Orlando. And he's only been in town a couple of hours. Damn, he's good.
Annoyed, Dom glares at Orlando.
Orlando mock-glares back, completely unfazed. "Don't look at me like that. I want to get to know Boyd."
"Billy," the Scotsman corrects. "Just call me Billy."
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
At this point, Dom's not sure how he feels about Billy. He'd done a nice job of saving him from Michael, but he'd laughed the whole time he was doing it, which made Dom feel like a pathetic git. Of course, Billy had a point: Panic is not a good look for him. So don't do it again, Dom tells himself firmly, and turns back to the problem at hand.
He now has to work with a bloke who snogged him in a pub, in front of anyone who happened to be in the general vicinity. This is not a good way to start a professional relationship, especially since Billy's a bloody good kisser and it'll be hard to say no if he ever suggests they try it again, and of course Dom will have to say no because sleeping with the talent is not a good idea. After all, look what happened with Michael. No, forget about Michael. Socializing with Billy is not a good idea, which is why Dom tried to discourage Billy when the subject of dinner came up, but clearly, Billy is one stubborn bloke.
Then again, Billy did seem taken aback when he saw Orlando for the first time, Dom muses to himself, considering his roommate as they sat together. Part of Orlando's impact comes from the fact that he's such a good looking man, and everything he is sort of infuses his face. Speaking of; Orlando's face is practically perfect, unlike Dom's unusual features, and people just feel good looking at him. Case in point; Dom's feels good just looking at him now. They'll talk this whole job mess out later at home, and everything will make sense.
But Orlando does have his faults, no question about it. Food, for instance.
He picks up his menu and studies it as if there'll be a quiz at the end of the meal, which means there actually will be. He'll ask, 'Too much oregano. And where is the basil? An obvious seasoning, and a sure sign of a clumsy chef. What about the asparagus?' As demonstrated in the past, Orlando can go for days on just a side dish. But for right now, all he does is gesture at the menu and ask, "What do you think?"
With a heavy sigh, Dom prepares for the usual battle. He's still nauseous from the stress of the afternoon, so a large slab of charbroiled dead animal doesn't appeal, but he has to eat or he'll pass out, and he'll need to choose something that Orlando hates to make, or he'll be insulted.
"Manicotti," he decides at last after much deliberation. "The last time you made it, you bitched about stuffing all that pasta."
"Not manicotti. Mine's better than here. Get a steak."
"I don't want a steak," Dom argues. "I want pasta."
Orlando's perfect brow furrows. "Well, don't come home tomorrow and say 'Pasta? We just had pasta'."
Billy looks from one to the other, one eyebrow raised. "You two been together long?"
Dom can't help but laugh at the annoyance in his voice. "You sound just like Michael."
"No shite, and speaking of Michael, what's that about?" Orlando asks, frowning at his roommate in confusion. "You and Michael having a drink together, after he sacked you?"
"Aye." Billy frowns at Dom, too. "I was there, and I didn't understand it."
Utterly drained, Dom slumps back in his chair, his lousy day returning in full force. "It was my worst nightmare. That's why I picked up Billy. I didn't want Michael to think I still . . . you know."
"We know, Sblomie." Turning his head, Orlando looks over at Billy. "He's usually not a pathetic sod. In fact, he's usually pretty confident. It's just Michael who makes him act like he's in sixth form again."
Billy nods sagely. "You should've been at the pub. He was practically incoherent."
"I was not," Dom protests, sticking out his chin and attempting to look strong and defiant, which causes Billy to snort in amusement. Giving up, Dom's head drops into his hands. "Oh, bloody buggering fuck."
Biting back a laugh, Orlando pats the top of Dom's head like he would a puppy. "There, there. You have us."
"Oh, goodie," Dom retorts dryly, without raising his head. "That's a bleeding comfort."
"Now order," Orlando instructs. "And don't screw up."
Dom finally convinces Orlando to agree that he can have the chicken fettuccine since he wants a taste of it himself. Chickens aren't really dead animals, Dom reasons, ready to contemplate anything except his future. They're more like protein with feathers. Orlando and Billy both order a steak, and Orlando gives the waitress lavish instructions on their side dishes, which she copies down word for word, having served Orlando before on more than one occasion.
When she's left to place their order with the kitchen, Orlando suddenly remembers that he neglected to design Dom's vegetables, but Dom argues that he wants them plain anyway. Orlando's haughty reply is 'that's no way to live,' and then they're off on one of their usual arguments with lots of laughing and piss-taking, when Billy finally interrupts.
"So, how long have you known each other?"
"Nearly four years," Orlando says with a fond smile. "Ever since Dom came to the station, fresh from uni."
Comfortable with this topic, Dom visibly relaxes and smiles at Orlando. "I was new in town and didn't have a flat, and Orli here was at the station picking up the books from his assistant. It turned out that his roommate had just moved out, so he said I could crash in the spare room until I found a place of my own."
Orlando grins at the memory. "He came home with me, we ordered pizza, and talked and laughed until three in the morning or so, and I said 'Don't find another place,' and we've been together ever since."
Silent, Billy looks from Orlando to Dom and back again, and Dom notices that he doesn't look all that happy. Laughter and smile fading away, Dom wonders what's wrong, what he said, not really caring as long as it's not another major trauma to deal with.
Then Billy explains Dom's unasked question. "I don't get it. If Orlando is the perfect man, why did you ever get mixed up with that fuckwit, Michael?"
Surprised at the revelation, Orlando arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm the perfect man?"
"That's what Dom says."
Orlando turns to face Dom. "I'm flattered, mate."
Dom tenses. "Well, almost." Oh, terrific, it's a possible major trauma after all. He shoots a look at Billy, preparing to jettison him permanently if he says the wrong thing. "Except for that one tiny flaw."
"I don't consider it a flaw." Orlando looks at Billy and smiles. "I'm straight."
Immediately, Billy relaxes and breaks out in what looks like a relieved smile before picking up a bread stick. "Good for you, but that doesn't justify Michael. There must be other men in this town almost as perfect as you who fancy blokes."
Silent, Dom blinks at him. He's obviously missed something there, but since it wasn't homophobia – unlikely considering the kiss at the bar – he doesn't much care what's going on in Billy's brain. It's a Scottish brain, and Dom really should stick close to home. Look at Michael, the American fuckwit. Not that he's comparing the two, because Billy doesn't deserve that.
Orlando sinks back in his chair. "I've got to admit, I wasn't happy about Michael, either." He turns to Dom and arches an eyebrow speculatively. "Why did you pick him?"
"I didn't." Dom tries to look unconcerned, almost aloof, praying for a change of subject. "He picked me. I don't know why."
"I don't either," Orlando replies. "You're not his type."
"What is his type?" Billy inquires.
"Jenny." Dom sticks out his chin again, in defiant unconcern, but unfortunately, his lower lip pushes out farther.
"Don't pout," Orlando says mildly before biting into a bread stick.
"You owe Jenny, whoever she is," Billy informs him. "She saved you from a bloke worse than death. You should say 'ta very much' the next time you see her."
"Which should be any minute now," Orlando announces, rolling his eyes and pointing his bread stick behind Billy. "That's them by the door."
Dom looks up just in time to see Michael wave, take Jenny's hand and tow her toward them through the dinner crowd.
The day from hell will never bloody end. Well, he'd asked for it.
Billy evidently thinks so, too. "It's a shame Jenny's not with you," he mimics. "We could all have dinner together."
"I know." Dom pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, steeling himself for the mess to come. "I know. If I'd behaved like an adult, I wouldn't have picked up Billy in a pub and lied to Michael. I deserve this."
"Nobody deserves this," Orlando retorts, handing Dom a bread stick. "Eat. I'm with you. We can take them."
"Hell, yes." Relenting, Billy pats his hand in support. "The odds are in our favor."
"You're in this, too? Good." Orlando hands him a bread stick as well. "We can always use another foot soldier in the fight against yuppie American prats."
"That bad?"
"Jenny! Michael!" Orlando stands up. "I was just telling Billy all about you."
Someday, Dom tells himself, I'll look back on this and laugh.
But not yet.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 2
Author:
dylan_dufresne Pairing: BB/DM
Rating: This chapter PG-ish
Summary: AU. Dom's a career-obsessed producer at a local radio station. Billy's in town to do a favor for a family friend.
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated as it’s my drug of choice.
Disclaimer: Not at all true in reality. This is my imagination at work.
A/N: Based on a book I read years ago. To cover myself, I’m going to call this an adaptation.
A/N 2: Big thanks to
not_a_lamb for the beta.Teaser: Dom knows that a pub is a lousy place to find a hero, but he's desperate and rattled, and very good at making do with what he has on hand. Unfortunately, what he has on hand is pretty pathetic.
Chapter 1
Dominic Monaghan hits the radio station door late in the afternoon at a brisk clip, banging it open like a saloon door. If they ever lock the door, he's going to seriously hurt himself and probably break his glasses, but they never seem to do that since everyone has to be buzzed in from the street level four floors below. So as a result, he charges through as usual, happy to be there, and as expected, what feels like forty people converge on him all at once.
He beams as they pounce; reveling the feeling that WCRB can't run without him, that without him there'd be dead air and dust. This is who he is, Dom-the-producer, Dom-the-brains-behind-The-Michael-King-Show, Dom-the-savior. He knows he's probably a little cracked to depend on a radio station for his identity, but considering all the other psychological problems running loose at the station, he's in relatively good mental health, so he chooses not to dwell on it.
First up is Liv, the sweet, always-ready-with-a-smile receptionist, who calls out "Dom!", but that noise alerts Jenny, his former student intern, who pops out of the hall looking rather miserable as she says, "Dom, I-" She is promptly pushed aside by a harried-looking Elijah, the junior accountant who blurts out, "Dom, the ratings-" who is overrun by Cate, the two-to-six barracuda who says, "Dom, I just heard about-"
In mid-sentence, Cate is abruptly shouldered aside by Michael, Dom's ex-lover and present boss, who tells him, "I need to see you in your office. Right now."
Pushing his glasses back up his squashed up nose so he can see Michael better, Dom notices that the silence settling over the reception area is a tribute to how bizarrely the American is behaving. Usually Michael makes his presence known through great effort: smiling, talking too loud, dropping names, laughing heartily in the wrong places. It's because he's insecure, and once upon a time Dom had felt sorry for him, but he doesn't now, having been unceremoniously dumped as Michael's lover just shy of two months ago when Michael decided he'd look better standing next to Jenny than standing next to Dom. He was right, of course, but it still hurts like a bitch.
Now standing in the entrance to the hallway, quietly superior, it's such a change for Michael that everybody shuts up, and then Dom follows him to his office without question.
Once inside, Michael closes the door behind him with a sharp click, walks around to Dom's desk chair, and sinks down into it.
It takes everything in Dom to fight back a snarl. All right, he isn't overly territorial, but this is his office, no matter how tiny and cluttered, and his battered desk, and that is his desk chair, and Michael is making him feel like a visitor in his own domain.
So he scowls at the other man and says, "What the hell?"
Michael crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, which tilts so that he's almost horizontal to Dom's vertical, and then says, "There's no good way to tell you this, Dom, so I'll just say it. I know it's going to be hard, but I also know you're an adult and you realize that things change. People grow. Change is good."
Letting his head fall back, Michael addresses the ceiling as he begins to wax philosophic, and while Dom waits for him to get to the point, assuming he has one, Dom considers how amazingly good looking Michael is, and how angry Dom is at him, and how much he wants him back. The bastard.
At present, this is the great mystery of his life. Michael's an insecure twat, so why the fuck had Dom fallen for him, and why is he still hung up on him? Why does Dom miss going to dinner with him and lying in bed with him, all the while listening to the American talk about himself? Of course, that had been research for the show, but still.
As Michael drones on and Dom automatically begins to edit his speech for broadcast purposes, the possibility suddenly dawns on him that what he'd actually fallen for was the edited Michael King he'd created on the radio, not the real Michael King who sits in front of him now, boring him to bloody tears. And that's what Dom is most pissed off about: that he'd created Michael, and then the wanker taken his hard work to someone else. A woman. Dom's assistant.
Michael is still waxing. "So that's why-"
Dom decides to cut in, more exasperated with himself than with Michael. "Look, I've got things to do here so if you'll just cut to the chase, I'll get back to keeping you a star." Okay, so that's below the belt, but Michael started the fight by parking his overindulged arse in Dom's chair. Not to mention dumping him for a tart. Okay, so he must admit that Jenny is a very nice tart, but still.
Michael sits up straight and lays his palms flat on his desk, the pressure of his fingers causing the pieces of paper beneath to shift. "All right, here it is: You're not going to be working on my show anymore."
Suddenly, the room begins to spin, and Dom drops into the remaining chair in the room before choking out a reply. "What?"
"I've sensed a certain hostility since our breakup, and it's affecting my performance, so Ian and I have decided it's best to put Jenny in your place - since you've trained her. That way the show won't suffer at all."
Dom is silent, totally and utterly gobsmacked.
Smiling at him, Michael spreads his fingers in an unaffected gesture of how the decision was out his hands, and couldn't be undone. "Jenny is producing the show, starting now. It'll be better for all of us."
"All of us who?" Dom sucks in a deep breath because he's pretty sure it's the not breathing that's making him dizzy. "Not all of us. Me. You have the prime time show. I'm the prime time producer. Unless I get the slot while you and Jenny move someplace cozy, this is not better for me."
"Well, of course I'm not moving." Michael sits up straighter in the chair and smoothes down the front of his shirt. "I'm the talent."
He's the fucking talent? Then what the bloody hell am I?
"And you're not sacked or anything like that. We do appreciate what you've done," Michael goes on to say, the British slang sounding forced and awkward coming from his lips, and Dom jerks his head up, anger finally evicting his panic.
"Of course I'm not fucking sacked," Dom seethes hotly. "Why would I be sacked? This makes no sense."
Michael plows on through his anger, his face infuriatingly passive. "And Ian's going to give you another show to produce. I made sure of that."
Good old Michael, taking care of him. What a mate. He's made sure the knife he used to stab Dom in the back is sharp, and has buried it good and deep. To the hilt. Dom stands up, refraining from killing Michael where he sits only by Herculean effort. "Well Michael, thanks for the support and good luck in the future. Now get the fuck out of my chair."
The other man rises, doing what Dom had ordered by instinct. After two years of doing everything Dom said without question, it's probably a hard habit to break. He moves toward the door, brimming with patronizing good will. "Look, why don't we go out for a drink? Just to show there are no hard feelings."
Dom wants to scream at him, rip his throat out and ground the bloody mess into the worn beige carpet at his feet. Of course, there are hard feelings, you wanker. If I could, I'd beat you senseless with one right now, you fucker. But Dom's too adult for that, and too rattled, so he lies instead. Michael may have kicked him in the teeth, but dammit, he still has his incisors, and they're sharp. "Sorry, I've already got a date," Dom informs him coolly. "Some other time, perhaps."
A well worn shoulder bag is scooped up from it's resting place against the side of Dom's desk, the material and weight familiar on Dom's slender shoulder. Ducking out into the hall in front of Michael, Dom escapes, forcing away the urge to cry. That would be a real mistake because he never cries, so if he does now, people would probably assume somebody has died.
And then he'll have to tell them that, tragically, Michael still lives and breathes. The utter and complete fuckwit.
Predictably, Michael follows him down the hall, so Dom puts on a burst of speed, grateful that he's wearing comfortable trainers.
Liv calls, "Dom!" again as he rushes past the receptionist's desk and this time, she shoves a small envelope at him. "Ian-"
Dom takes the envelope without slowing down, flashing the best smile he can muster under the circumstances, and bolts for the lift with Michael still in hot pursuit. Then Liv calls out to Michael as well, a manicured hand on his bicep stopping him, and Dom catches the lift, mercifully escaping to the street below.
He's been sacked. He still has a job, but his career with Michael is gone. Dom sticks his crooked jaw out and tries to fake defiance. Big deal, he'll just build another show around this new bloke. But it's no good. He's spent two years making that show a hit, taking surveys, researching topics, devising contests, doing everything he knew to showcase Michael's strengths. He'd majored in Michael King, and now he's been unceremoniously expelled.
For a moment, outside the restaurant across from the station, Dom feels a moment of pure fear. What if I can't do it again? What if Michael is right and he is the talent? What if I really am a loser? Nobody coming to me for help; nobody relying on me.
No. I'll find a way back.
Dom grits his teeth, pushes his shoulders back, and strides into the restaurant.
A spacious hallway at Lou's Pub divides the restaurant from the bar, a sort of open barrier that separates the eating yuppies from the drinking yuppies. Dom stops there first and opens the envelope Liv handed him to find the kind of note the station owner is famous for: short, tactless, and to the point:
Dom,
I'm taking you off Michael's show and
giving you to Billy Boyd, the man taking
over for Karl Urban. Meet him tomorrow,
Tuesday, five o'clock, in my office.
Ian
Before he was fired, 'Urban' Karl had the 10pm to 2 AM spot; the fucking dead zone of radio. Dom realizes that he's just been demoted from producing the radio equivalent of Oprah to the radio equivalent of reruns of a fucking infomercial. Okay so maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but not by much. The place in Dom's teeth where Michael had kicked him earlier begins to throb harder.
And his roommate, Orlando, who is supposed to meet him, isn't here to comfort him. Fuck this. He's going home to get stinking drunk and drown his misery in private. Dom turns around to go back into the street, but stops short because right outside the door is Michael, greeting people who greet him back like he's a celebrity. Which of course he is; thanks to Dom.
Now, he's going to come into the pub and find Dom alone after his big talk about a date because Orlando is late again. Not that Orlando would have been very impressive as a date, but he would have been more impressive than no date at all. Michael knows that the relationship between Dom and Orlando is purely platonic. Always has been, Dom promised Michael while they were seeing one another. Well aware of his impending humiliation, Dom turns his attention to the long bar, trying to come up with a solution that will save him. Of course, Dom knows that a pub is a lousy place to find a hero, but he's desperate and rattled, and very good at making do with what he has on hand. Unfortunately, what he has on hand is pretty pathetic.
Shoving his thin, wire-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose with one finger, he peers at the row of stools lined up at the bar. Businessman. Businesswoman. Empty seat. Businessman. Businessman. Empty seat. Empty seat. Bloke in a leather jacket. Businessman.
Dom swallows the lump that has been in his throat for the past ten minutes or so, and squares his shoulders. Okay, fine, if that's what he has to work with, he'll work with it. But it's going to have to be the ones in denims because Dom is never going to have a relationship with a suit again as long as he lives; even a relationship that's only going to last five minutes.
And the bloke really isn't that bad, Dom reasons, trying to drum up some enthusiasm before he makes his move. The older man's ginger hair is shaggy over his collar, his brown leather jacket has definitely seen better days, and his jeans are looking to be a wee bit worn in spots, but he's fit and clean and most important of all, he makes a nice contrast to all the charcoal suits that look like Michael. And what Dom wants more than anything right now is someone who isn't Michael.
Of course, Dom knows he's behaving like a daft idiot, but given the life-bomb that has just exploded in his face, the fact that he's behaving at all and not sitting in a catatonic trance or drowning at the bottom of a bottle on the floor of his office is a step in the right direction. Deciding that at least the bloke looks like a change of pace, Dom walks over to him and says, "Hi!" as cheerfully as he can muster. He's not feeling particularly cheerful at the moment, so Dom sounds like he's been sucking helium, but the focus of his attention turns and looks at him anyway.
Dom's not sure what he'd been expecting. Maybe some fantasy bloke who is even more perfect looking than Michael, which in all fairness to the American, would be almost impossible, but Dom is stunned to discover that they aren't even in the same class. He has deep green eyes that cause Dom's breath to catch in his throat, a nicely shaped nose that suits his lightly-freckled face, and sensuous bow-shaped lips with an intriguing filtrum right above it. In short: Not bad at all.
Dom casually drops his shoulder bag down on the bar. "So, are you meeting someone?" he asks, still on helium, and then glances over his shoulder to check on the Michael situation. All he has to do is keep the bloke in conversation until Michael walks in, sees that Dom is with him, and leaves.
Michael doesn't like competition.
"So are you?" Dom continues, smiling like a telemarketer. "Meeting someone?" He sits down beside the bloke, praying Michael won't come in.
One eyebrow quirks up into a curious arch, and then comes the reply, in a knee-melting, mouthwatering, unmistakably Scottish lilt. "No, I'm not, and what in the world do you think you're doing?"
Billy Boyd is gazing into his tumbler of scotch and contemplating his future when the Englishman appears at his side and begins attempting to pick him up. His immediate future is looking a wee bit complicated, so he's wisely decided that his best plan is to lay low, not make waves, do the job, and get out. Filling in for a night show at a wee radio station for a spell can't be that hard. The station isn't that big. Hell, the town isn't that big.
So far, it's looks as though Billy's biggest problem is going to be entertaining himself. Considering some of the colorful individuals he's met along his travels that have held down jobs at radio stations, he can certainly give it a try. And he's made it clear to everybody concerned that he's only around for eight weeks. Period. He has things to do and places he has to be come November.
While Billy hasn't quite decided exactly what place he has to be in November, he's certain it's somewhere uncomplicated and remote so he has time to relax before starting at the network in January. Especially remote from his sister who has taken to asking weird favors lately. Like "Check into this radio station for your uncle's old school chum Ian." This is what comes of going home to Glasgow for Margaret's birthday. From now on, Billy vows, he'll just send a card and some flowers to brighten her day.
And as soon as he's done, he's out of here and someplace else. Someplace where he can do something simple for awhile; like raise sheep. No, too complicated. He'll raise carrots. You don't have to feed carrots. Is there such a thing as a carrot farm? There has to be. All those carrots have to come from somewhere, yeah?
He stops thinking when the Englishman squeaks, "Hi!"
Billy blinks at him, mildly surprised. He doesn't look like the vivacious pick-up-a-bloke-in-a-pub type. Sharp blue-grey eyes gleam behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his dark blonde hair is tousled endearingly, not that Billy would ever tell him that. There is nothing wrong with his nose or mouth, even though the former is kinda squashed up, and the latter a wee bit crooked, but on him it seems to work rather well.
Definitely not the type to walk up to a stranger in a pub. Frankly, he doesn't seem dressed for trolling either as the oversized vest he's wearing almost completely conceals the slender, tempting body that Billy's sharp eye has detected. He looks like a nice, average bloke. Not too young, not too old; late twenties to early thirties, unless Billy misses his guess.
Dom raises his eyebrows so high they disappear under his shaggy bangs and bats his impossibly long eyelashes. "So! Are you meeting someone?" He glances over his shoulder before dropping his shoulder bag down on the bar. It looks like it's made from very old blue denim, and held together by the Englishman's will alone. Billy has never seen anything quite like it so he gingerly pokes his finger at the bag, not surprised to discover that it's as fuzzy to touch as it looks.
"Are you?" Dom smiles at him again, a sort of strained, too-many-teeth, trying-way-too-hard smile. "Meeting someone?" He sinks down on the stool beside Billy.
"No." Billy looks at him with mild interest. "No, I'm not, and what in the world do you think you're doing?"
"Picking you up?"
Eyebrow still arched, Billy shakes his head. "I don't think so. This isn't your style. What are you really doing?"
The artificial smile quickly morphs into a genuine scowl, and Dom's perky voice drops an octave. "I don't believe this. Can't you even pretend on the hope that you'll get lucky?"
"I don't pretend. I'm the natural, open type." Billy considers moving away from the Englishman, perhaps finding a table, and then rejects the idea. If he leaves now, he'll never find out what this bloke is up to. And besides, when he scowled at Billy, his voice had gone husky. Truth be told, the younger man has got a rather fetching low voice. Billy smiles at his companion, trying to make him talk again. "Why don't you just give me the highlights, and then we can take it from there."
Sighing heavily, Dom lowers his head a little and stares at him over the rims of his glasses. "Look, the highlights will take far too long, and besides, it makes me look like a pathetic sod. All I ask is that you pretend to be having a drink with me." When Billy gives him a skeptical look, Dom quickly adds, "I swear that's it."
Right. Billy has been wandering through the world long enough to know that won't be it, that there will be complications. There are always complications, which is why Billy has spent his years learning to be light on his feet and fast out the door. It's a practice that has served him well.
On the other hand, this bloke isn't part of his current problem so there aren't likely to be long term complications, and he has a free evening before he needs to go poking around in other people's business, so Billy might as well poke around in this bloke's for awhile. At the very least, he'll get to listen to him talk, in that voice that strokes his senses quite pleasantly. Decision made, Billy shrugs and motions to the bartender "Ach, it's worth one drink just to find out what happens next."
"I'm pretty sure he won't come over here." Uneasily, Dom looks over his shoulder again. "I hope."
When the bartender arrives, Billy says, "He'll have . . . What will you have?"
"I'll pay for my own Amaretto and cream, Max," Dom interjects crisply, reaching into his fuzzy bag and withdrawing a couple of bills, handing them over while looking over his shoulder again.
"You got it, Dom," the bartender replies and moves away.
"Amaretto and cream?" Billy can't keep himself from pulling a face. "That's sounds disgusting."
"You're from Scotland, yeah? I've got one word for you. Haggis."
"Just because I'm Scottish, doesn't mean I'm personally responsible for all of the country's culinary creations," Bill fires back, unfazed.
"Nice alliteration. At least the cream part is good for me," Dom muses aloud, returning to the subject of his drink. "Well, it should be skim milk, but pubs never have skim milk."
"That's true." Billy pulls back a little. "I have to say, you have the weirdest pickup line I've ever heard."
"Pick up line?" Swiveling around on the stool to face Billy, Dom's expressive eyes narrow to slits and his cheeks grow rosy with outrage. Fortunately, the outrage looks very good on him. "This isn't a pick up line. The pick up line was before, the one that didn't work." He swivels around again, to keep lookout. "Oh, bugger." Turning to face Billy, Dom swallows hard. "There he is. Okay, here's the deal. We're together. Try to look like you haven't just insulted me."
"I didn't insult you," Billy retorts mildly. "I made an observation."
"Well, stop." After a quick glance over his shoulder, Dom groans under his breath. "Fuck. There he is." Billy watches his eyes drop closed, and when he sees the other man's lips moving, he leans in closer only to discover that Dom's not talking to him. "He's going to go right by. I'm sure he's going to go right by. Oh please, just keep-"
A male model type stops on the other side of him. "Dom! There you are. I-"
Despite his efforts to control his reaction, Dom's slender body spasms as if he's been shot. "Michael! What a surprise. To see you. Again. So soon." He shoots a quick look at Billy and murmurs, very softly, "Oh, shite."
Then he bravely lifts his chin and turns to smile at Michael.
He's doing pretty well, Billy muses to himself. Good smile. Pretty lame answer, but the smile and the chin will probably make up for it. He takes a moment to observe the man Dom is so desperate to avoid. Tall, dark, and handsome if you like really pretty men. Very expensive suit. Toothpaste grin. Fake. And the wanker is smiling that grin at Dom as if he knows Dom is in agony. Billy sighs and shakes his head at the situation before taking a sip of his scotch. Good thing he's not involved in this one. It's a mess. A big one.
"Let me buy you a drink, Dom. It's the least I can do." Michael the wanker motions for the bartender.
Max wanders back and sets a tumbler of Amaretto down in front of Dom.
"No, no." Dom's mouth pulls tight from the stress. "I already have one. Thanks, Max."
"Amaretto and cream." Michael laughs. "Good old Dom." Taking a seat beside Dom at the bar, he pats the younger man on the back, almost condescendingly.
A very faint low growl rumbles in Dom's throat, locked behind his teeth, almost indiscernible in the babble of the bar, but Billy hears it because Dom had turned toward him as he made it. "I'm sorry about this," Dom whispers to him. "So fucking sorry."
Leaning in close, Billy whispers in Dom's ear, "Try not to look like a wounded basset hound, yeah?"
With a quick nod, Dom flashes Michael a brilliant smile over his shoulder.
"Oh, I didn't realize the two of you were together," Michael says, and pauses expectantly for an introduction.
Dom keeps smiling like a half-wit, so after a moment Billy takes pity on him and extends a hand past his nose. "Billy Boyd."
Taking Billy's hand with enthusiasm, Michael grips it in a he-man clasp, and when Billy lets his hand go limp, he smirks.
What a fecking arse, Billy thinks to himself. First class all the way.
At the development, Michael is positively jovial. "Well, this is a coincidence. I'm Michael King. You've inherited my producer, you lucky dog. I've taught him everything there is to know about radio. You're in very good hands."
Dom makes that low growling sound in his throat again, and Billy blinks at them both and then let Michael babble on about his own many successes, ignoring him for heavier thoughts. So much for distracting himself with the Englishman. Dom works at the station with Michael the arse. They’re probably both in trouble up to their bleeding necks.
Dom certainly looks like he's in trouble. He turns bleak, questioning eyes on Billy. "Is that true?" he whispers hoarsely. "You're my new DJ?" Surreptitiously, Billy nods at him and Dom lets his eyes fall closed briefly. "We were just discussing that," he lies as he turns back to Michael.
Billy picked up the glass of Amaretto and cream and tucks it into the curl of Dom's long, slender fingers. "Here you go, Boss. Glad to meet you, Michael. Is this the place everybody at the station hangs out at?"
"Pretty much. Convenient, right across the street, you know." Michael smiles broadly while he sizes Billy up with obvious, irritating confidence. "So have you two known each other long?"
Dom puts down his newly empty glass as he swallows. "Oh, it seems like it."
Billy brings his mind back to the problem at hand. "Don't chug cream like that, Dommie." Smoothly, he removes the empty glass from Dom's grasp. "This isn't skim milk, you know. This is the real thing, the hard stuff. Max, another Amaretto and cream for the Boss. In fact, just bring over the bottle and drive in the cow."
"A comedian," Dom comments as he shakes his head. "Five blokes sitting at a bar, and I pick the comedian. Terrific."
"What?" Michael leans in closer in an attempt to catch what Dom is saying.
"He thinks I'm funny," Billy explains as he slides his arm around Dom's slender waist and gives him an affectionate squeeze, bringing their bodies closer together. Dom's a lot bendier than he is prepared for and rather likes it, so he leaves his arm where it is for awhile. "Funny is the basis for any good relationship."
"Maybe that's what's wrong with us, huh, Dom?" Michael looks soulfully at him.
What an arse. "You two were once . . ." Billy wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Dom. "You never told me that, Dommie."
"It never came up." Dom pointedly glares at him, unable to move very much, thanks to the arm wrapped snugly around his waist.
"You're a lucky man, Boyd." Michael is still trying to recapture Dom's attention, but Dom misses his meaningful looks because he's glaring at Billy.
Billy beams at them both, enjoying the situation far too much. "That's what everybody keeps telling me. Actually, it's not luck, it's skill."
Refusing to give up, Michael tries again. "So how did you two meet?"
"In a pub," Billy replies. "He picked me up."
"Dom did?" Predictably, Michael looks astounded at the revelation.
"He begged me to buy him a drink."
"Dom did?"
Billy nods. "Happens to me all the time. Animal magnetism."
"Oh, a joke." Michael looks relieved. "How did you two really meet?"
"I picked him up." Dom takes a deep breath, preparing himself to confess. "The truth is-"
Billy pulls Dom tight to his side, momentarily shutting down his lungs. He can see no good reason for Michael to know Dom is this vulnerable. "The truth is that he sat down next to me, and I looked at him and thought, 'This is a charming, interesting bloke,' and we started to talk. We've been together ever since."
Dom jerks his head up to stare at Billy, and then he smiles softly, and Billy smiles back by reflex, caught by the intelligence in his expressive, blue-grey eyes and the warmth in his wide, tempting mouth. Then Dom leans toward him, and Billy tips his head to hear what Dom has to say.
They're almost nose to nose, Dom's hot breath caressing his cheek. "You're a good person. I forgive you for insulting me." After patting Billy's sleeve, Dom then disengages himself from Billy's embrace.
Billy immediately misses his warmth. "I didn't insult you."
"How long have you two known each other?" Michael asks, seemingly undaunted.
"An eternity," Billy replies with a smile, a persistent hand resting on Dom's back and fingers toying with the dark blonde hair at the nape of his neck.
"But it seems like only a few short minutes." Dom glares at him again and then he leans back, his attention caught by something over his shoulder. He signals someone away, and Billy turns just in time to get the impression that someone is doing a fade from the doorway into the hall.
So Dom has a secret. Life just gets more interesting all the time. And of course, this means that Billy's going to have to stick with Dom until he discovers his secret. He's been hired to find all the secrets at the station. It's his job. It's his duty. He looks at Dom, his tousled hair shining like old, dark brass in the warm light of the pub.
It's his pleasure. Most definitely.
"So, where's Jenny tonight?" Dom leans on the bar in a lousy attempt at languid nonchalance, Billy's hand sliding down to the middle of his back. "What a shame she's not with you. We could all have dinner together."
Careful, Dom, Billy thinks, careful to keep his expression neutral.
"Jenny's still at the station." Michael frowns in thought. "You're right. It is a shame. This would've been a great chance for her to meet Billy."
"There'll be other chances." Billy comments before downing the last of his scotch. "I'm not going anywhere, except to the top of the ratings."
Michael mistakenly assumes that's a joke, too. "Heh, heh, heh."
After deciding that Michael has a laugh like an asthmatic horse, Billy wonders if that's why Dom left him. Listening to that laugh would be reason enough for anybody to leave him, he muses, which brings up an ugly thought. He'll have to be very careful because if Michael is any indication of his radio competition, Billy will easily rise to the top of the ratings. That would be bad. Very, very bad. One of the basic tenets of undercover investigation is not becoming a household word. Bad form.
"Well," Dom begins as he slides off his stool. "We need to get going; dinner plans. Wonderful seeing you again, Michael."
Michael leans forward to kiss Dom good-bye, only to have the Englishman trip backwards to get away from him.
All too eager to take advantage the opportunity, Billy steps forward and smoothly catches Dom, an arm automatically tightening around the younger man's slender waist. "Falling for me all over again, Dommie?" he teases. Dom is warm and welcoming against his chest, smells good enough to nibble on, and Billy's in no hurry to let go. "Try to restrain yourself," he adds suggestively. "We're in public."
Surprised, Dom turns his head to look into Billy's deep green eyes and swallows hard. "It's your animal magnetism. Consider me restrained. You can let go now."
"Oh, I don't think so," Billy replies huskily, and turns Dom, pulling him into a kiss.
He only plans to kiss Dom quickly and let him go, mostly to annoy Michael and, all right, because he has a great mouth, but when Dom clutches at him in surprise and all but falls into Billy's arms with a whimpering sigh, plans change. The kiss is a lot more than Billy expected, a lot more warmth and softness and weight, Dom's mouth cool and sweet from the cream, and Billy is more than a wee bit dizzy by the time he remembers where he is and comes up for air.
"What are you doing?" Dom sounds more breathless than annoyed when he tries to pull away from Billy.
"Making my move. Come back here." Eyes brimming with heat, Billy reaches for Dom again, only to have him step back.
Michael looks on, disgruntled and disapproving. "Well, really, Dom. You're in public."
"That's lust." Billy smiles at him happily. "He can't keep his lips off me." Dom takes another step back, and Billy stands up to follow him. "Well, it looks like we're moving on," he tells Michael. "Tell Jenny we say 'Hello'."
When they're in the hallway, Dom shakes his head in disbelief. "Who are you really? Satan? I'm being punished, yeah?"
"I'm Billy Boyd," the Scotsman replies, holding out his hand. "I work at the radio station like that stuffed shirt you used to date. I assume all you did is date. I'd hate to think that any bloke I'd kissed in a pub actually went to bed with somebody like that."
Looking down at the proffered hand, Dom sighs. Then he takes it, shakes it once and promptly drops it. "I'm Dominic Monaghan, your producer at WCRB. It's nice meeting you, and thank you very much for helping me with Michael, but I have to go now. We can talk again tomorrow at the station. "
He turns to go into the restaurant, but Billy steps around Dom to block his way, because the last thing he wants now is to get dumped. There are too many things Dom can tell him about the station. Granted, Billy can probably get the information from other people, but other people didn't have Dom's voice. Or Dom's mouth. If he has to listen to a lot of boring things about a radio station, he at least wants to hear them in Dom's seductive voice, watching Dom's intriguing mouth. "Where are you going?"
"To dinner." Dom gestures to the dining room part of the pub opposite the bar. "With my dinner date. The only perfect man I know."
"Ah." Billy nods at Dom encouragingly. "Your father. We should meet so he can see the kind of bloke you're working with now. An improvement over Michael, I'm sure."
"No."
"No, he shouldn't see?"
"No, he's not my father."
"No?" Billy thinks faster, his cherubic lips pursed. "I must say, I've never met a perfect man." He tries to look wistful. "I've always wanted a role model."
For a moment Dom looks at him with disapproval, but then he breaks out into a smile as he finally gives up. "Okay, you win. I owe you one. You want to eat dinner with Orlando and me? If you can't, it's perfectly all right."
"Thank you." Billy holds the door to the restaurant open and gestures for Dom to enter ahead of him. "I can't wait to meet Orlando, the perfect man."
"Terrific," Dom adds under his breath.
Billy follows Dom into the restaurant, a big room with too much mahogany and not enough light. He watches as Dom looks around the dimness and then breaks out into a smile when a man across the room stands up and waves them over.
As the near the table, Billy's eyes narrow ever so slightly. As much as he hates to admit it, this bloke might actually be the perfect man. He's tall, or at least taller than Billy's five foot six, and classically handsome without being obnoxious about it. Unlike Michael the arse. His jaw is strong, chestnut curls rich and gleaming, and his deep brown eyes are warm, his affectionate smile for Dom real and loving.
"Your brother?" Billy asks hopefully, and Dom says, "No," with a shake of his head before walking away from him. Quickly following his dinner companion, Billy racks his brain, trying to find something about Orlando that isn't perfect and feels vaguely annoyed when he's unsuccessful.
Sliding into a chair beside Mr. Perfect Man, Dom offers introductions. "Orli, this is Mr. Billy Boyd, the new ten to two DJ. I'm producing his show."
"I heard. Liv called." With his head tipping to one side, Orlando gives Dom a look that appears to be sympathy, but Dom has already turned back to Billy. "Billy, this is Orlando Bloom, my roommate. He's the station's senior accountant."
He sounds like a well-behaved child, but he doesn't look like one. Idly, Billy begins to wonder what Dom is like when he isn't behaving well in public. No. That sort of thinking will add to those complications he's been expecting, and Billy tries to avoid complications. Especially now. They always seem to find him anyway, but he keeps trying.
"Boyd?" Orlando's smile is open and admiring as he holds out his hand. "Didn't you used to have a show at CKNW?"
Ouch. Billy hates lying and makes a point to avoid it, but in this case, it's better than, "No, that's my second-cousin, the drug dealing DJ." Instead, he shakes his head. "Call me Billy."
Much to his chagrin, Orlando keeps going. "Boyd. I know I've heard that name from somewhere. I've got a friend up near Kent who was very upset when you pulled up stakes about a year ago, if I recall correctly. I'm looking forward to hearing you myself now."
His smile is genuine, and Billy can't help but like him.
"Who in Kent?" Dom asks, picking up the menu and opening it up. "I'm starving."
Orlando settles down in the chair next to Dom. "Viggo. Remember? The Danish painter from that 'Art in History' seminar we took?"
Billy sinks down into the chair across from Dom so he can watch him without being too obvious about it.
"Right. You kept in touch with Viggo?" Dom slides an elegant finger down the menu list, pursing his lips. "Ah hah. Pasta."
"Thanks to e-mail, I keep in touch with everybody." Frowning, Orlando taps Dom's menu. "Not pasta. I'll do pasta tomorrow night. Get something here that's a pain in the arse to make. Do you like pasta, Billy?"
It takes Billy a moment to respond, as Orlando and Dom are so in sync in their conversation he's a little surprised to be suddenly included. "Aye."
"Come to dinner tomorrow night."
Pleased at the invitation and how it'll make things easier for him, Billy beams his best smile as he replies, "Thank you." Another contact at the station. First Dom, then Michael, now Orlando. And he's only been in town a couple of hours. Damn, he's good.
Annoyed, Dom glares at Orlando.
Orlando mock-glares back, completely unfazed. "Don't look at me like that. I want to get to know Boyd."
"Billy," the Scotsman corrects. "Just call me Billy."
At this point, Dom's not sure how he feels about Billy. He'd done a nice job of saving him from Michael, but he'd laughed the whole time he was doing it, which made Dom feel like a pathetic git. Of course, Billy had a point: Panic is not a good look for him. So don't do it again, Dom tells himself firmly, and turns back to the problem at hand.
He now has to work with a bloke who snogged him in a pub, in front of anyone who happened to be in the general vicinity. This is not a good way to start a professional relationship, especially since Billy's a bloody good kisser and it'll be hard to say no if he ever suggests they try it again, and of course Dom will have to say no because sleeping with the talent is not a good idea. After all, look what happened with Michael. No, forget about Michael. Socializing with Billy is not a good idea, which is why Dom tried to discourage Billy when the subject of dinner came up, but clearly, Billy is one stubborn bloke.
Then again, Billy did seem taken aback when he saw Orlando for the first time, Dom muses to himself, considering his roommate as they sat together. Part of Orlando's impact comes from the fact that he's such a good looking man, and everything he is sort of infuses his face. Speaking of; Orlando's face is practically perfect, unlike Dom's unusual features, and people just feel good looking at him. Case in point; Dom's feels good just looking at him now. They'll talk this whole job mess out later at home, and everything will make sense.
But Orlando does have his faults, no question about it. Food, for instance.
He picks up his menu and studies it as if there'll be a quiz at the end of the meal, which means there actually will be. He'll ask, 'Too much oregano. And where is the basil? An obvious seasoning, and a sure sign of a clumsy chef. What about the asparagus?' As demonstrated in the past, Orlando can go for days on just a side dish. But for right now, all he does is gesture at the menu and ask, "What do you think?"
With a heavy sigh, Dom prepares for the usual battle. He's still nauseous from the stress of the afternoon, so a large slab of charbroiled dead animal doesn't appeal, but he has to eat or he'll pass out, and he'll need to choose something that Orlando hates to make, or he'll be insulted.
"Manicotti," he decides at last after much deliberation. "The last time you made it, you bitched about stuffing all that pasta."
"Not manicotti. Mine's better than here. Get a steak."
"I don't want a steak," Dom argues. "I want pasta."
Orlando's perfect brow furrows. "Well, don't come home tomorrow and say 'Pasta? We just had pasta'."
Billy looks from one to the other, one eyebrow raised. "You two been together long?"
Dom can't help but laugh at the annoyance in his voice. "You sound just like Michael."
"No shite, and speaking of Michael, what's that about?" Orlando asks, frowning at his roommate in confusion. "You and Michael having a drink together, after he sacked you?"
"Aye." Billy frowns at Dom, too. "I was there, and I didn't understand it."
Utterly drained, Dom slumps back in his chair, his lousy day returning in full force. "It was my worst nightmare. That's why I picked up Billy. I didn't want Michael to think I still . . . you know."
"We know, Sblomie." Turning his head, Orlando looks over at Billy. "He's usually not a pathetic sod. In fact, he's usually pretty confident. It's just Michael who makes him act like he's in sixth form again."
Billy nods sagely. "You should've been at the pub. He was practically incoherent."
"I was not," Dom protests, sticking out his chin and attempting to look strong and defiant, which causes Billy to snort in amusement. Giving up, Dom's head drops into his hands. "Oh, bloody buggering fuck."
Biting back a laugh, Orlando pats the top of Dom's head like he would a puppy. "There, there. You have us."
"Oh, goodie," Dom retorts dryly, without raising his head. "That's a bleeding comfort."
"Now order," Orlando instructs. "And don't screw up."
Dom finally convinces Orlando to agree that he can have the chicken fettuccine since he wants a taste of it himself. Chickens aren't really dead animals, Dom reasons, ready to contemplate anything except his future. They're more like protein with feathers. Orlando and Billy both order a steak, and Orlando gives the waitress lavish instructions on their side dishes, which she copies down word for word, having served Orlando before on more than one occasion.
When she's left to place their order with the kitchen, Orlando suddenly remembers that he neglected to design Dom's vegetables, but Dom argues that he wants them plain anyway. Orlando's haughty reply is 'that's no way to live,' and then they're off on one of their usual arguments with lots of laughing and piss-taking, when Billy finally interrupts.
"So, how long have you known each other?"
"Nearly four years," Orlando says with a fond smile. "Ever since Dom came to the station, fresh from uni."
Comfortable with this topic, Dom visibly relaxes and smiles at Orlando. "I was new in town and didn't have a flat, and Orli here was at the station picking up the books from his assistant. It turned out that his roommate had just moved out, so he said I could crash in the spare room until I found a place of my own."
Orlando grins at the memory. "He came home with me, we ordered pizza, and talked and laughed until three in the morning or so, and I said 'Don't find another place,' and we've been together ever since."
Silent, Billy looks from Orlando to Dom and back again, and Dom notices that he doesn't look all that happy. Laughter and smile fading away, Dom wonders what's wrong, what he said, not really caring as long as it's not another major trauma to deal with.
Then Billy explains Dom's unasked question. "I don't get it. If Orlando is the perfect man, why did you ever get mixed up with that fuckwit, Michael?"
Surprised at the revelation, Orlando arches an eyebrow at him. "I'm the perfect man?"
"That's what Dom says."
Orlando turns to face Dom. "I'm flattered, mate."
Dom tenses. "Well, almost." Oh, terrific, it's a possible major trauma after all. He shoots a look at Billy, preparing to jettison him permanently if he says the wrong thing. "Except for that one tiny flaw."
"I don't consider it a flaw." Orlando looks at Billy and smiles. "I'm straight."
Immediately, Billy relaxes and breaks out in what looks like a relieved smile before picking up a bread stick. "Good for you, but that doesn't justify Michael. There must be other men in this town almost as perfect as you who fancy blokes."
Silent, Dom blinks at him. He's obviously missed something there, but since it wasn't homophobia – unlikely considering the kiss at the bar – he doesn't much care what's going on in Billy's brain. It's a Scottish brain, and Dom really should stick close to home. Look at Michael, the American fuckwit. Not that he's comparing the two, because Billy doesn't deserve that.
Orlando sinks back in his chair. "I've got to admit, I wasn't happy about Michael, either." He turns to Dom and arches an eyebrow speculatively. "Why did you pick him?"
"I didn't." Dom tries to look unconcerned, almost aloof, praying for a change of subject. "He picked me. I don't know why."
"I don't either," Orlando replies. "You're not his type."
"What is his type?" Billy inquires.
"Jenny." Dom sticks out his chin again, in defiant unconcern, but unfortunately, his lower lip pushes out farther.
"Don't pout," Orlando says mildly before biting into a bread stick.
"You owe Jenny, whoever she is," Billy informs him. "She saved you from a bloke worse than death. You should say 'ta very much' the next time you see her."
"Which should be any minute now," Orlando announces, rolling his eyes and pointing his bread stick behind Billy. "That's them by the door."
Dom looks up just in time to see Michael wave, take Jenny's hand and tow her toward them through the dinner crowd.
The day from hell will never bloody end. Well, he'd asked for it.
Billy evidently thinks so, too. "It's a shame Jenny's not with you," he mimics. "We could all have dinner together."
"I know." Dom pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, steeling himself for the mess to come. "I know. If I'd behaved like an adult, I wouldn't have picked up Billy in a pub and lied to Michael. I deserve this."
"Nobody deserves this," Orlando retorts, handing Dom a bread stick. "Eat. I'm with you. We can take them."
"Hell, yes." Relenting, Billy pats his hand in support. "The odds are in our favor."
"You're in this, too? Good." Orlando hands him a bread stick as well. "We can always use another foot soldier in the fight against yuppie American prats."
"That bad?"
"Jenny! Michael!" Orlando stands up. "I was just telling Billy all about you."
Someday, Dom tells himself, I'll look back on this and laugh.
But not yet.
Chapter 2
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 07:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 05:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-27 06:00 am (UTC)Any chance you could cite your source? Even if you don't remember the exact name of the book, better to be as clear as possible.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-27 06:53 am (UTC)I did an adaptation 3 or 4 years ago - Wow. Have I been writing Monaboyd that long? Huh. - and after the entire fic was posted, I revealed the book. As I recall, it's listed in the header info on my Master List, with the adaptation note.
In this case, because there's a mystery involved, I don't want to reveal the title of the book until, like last time, the entire fic is all posted. Wouldn't want to ruin the surprise. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 09:49 pm (UTC)Oh, Dylan, I can't tell you how good it is to see new fic by you, not to mention the absolute pleasure that is your writing. Dom is such a naive, sweetheart. And Billy's secret mission seems exciting - undercover investigator!Billy. I loves it!!!!!
Can't wait to find out what happens next. Thank you so much.
*happy sigh*
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 06:04 am (UTC)Thank you very much. So pleased that you enjoyed.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 10:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 06:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-17 11:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 06:11 am (UTC)Thanks very much. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 05:10 am (UTC)I love how this is going so far, I can't wait to see what happens next.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 04:29 pm (UTC)It feels good to be writing the boys.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 10:29 am (UTC)I love how Dom reflects he fell in love with a construct Michael.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 04:48 pm (UTC)I'm rather fond of that part, too.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 05:38 pm (UTC):)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-18 06:17 pm (UTC)Thanks. :)
no subject
Date: 2009-05-21 05:31 am (UTC)(points if you remember where that's from)
I also like the way the title suggests not only a radio show but some prolonged or repetitive naughty nocturnal activities as well.
(apologies in advance for this weird feedback as i have a terrible cold right now and am over medicated)
I suppose i could have just said: dood! i really, really liked it!
*totters off like Ozzy on a good day*
no subject
Date: 2009-05-21 11:48 pm (UTC)Hee. I'm rather fond of the title. It's fun. :)
Thank you very much. Very glad you enjoyed.
no subject
Date: 2009-06-02 03:23 pm (UTC)So now I have and love love love it!!! Poor Dommie, but then again he has Orlando and Billy on his side now...so how sorry are you to feel for the boy? hahahaha I'm glad that Orli is straight so Billy has no competition! ;P
You can't get a better writer of Monaobyd than yourself and I will be shaking in anticipation till the next chapter!!
<3
no subject
Date: 2009-06-02 11:36 pm (UTC)Dom's having a really rough day, so I think he deserves a bit of sympathy.
I'm working on the fic, but thanks to RL, it's slow going.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-14 03:36 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-17 01:54 am (UTC)Muse is hibernating at the moment, but I'm hopeful that he'll make an appearance soon...
no subject
Date: 2010-01-16 03:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-17 03:58 am (UTC)I miss writing, so I hope the Muse will start to play nice in the near future.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-27 01:59 pm (UTC)I'm rather in love with this universe already. The way you've set this up is oh so lovely. I can't wait to see where it goes.
*tempts muse with chocolate, cookies, and homemade cheesecake*
no subject
Date: 2010-03-29 04:29 am (UTC)Despite a sleepy Muse, I've been working on this fic lately. Will hopefully have more to offer in June for the next
Thank you. Mmmmmmm cheesecake.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-22 10:25 pm (UTC)I wonder what Billy's up to...
no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 03:55 am (UTC)